Eulogy at the Hanging Grounds
by Tim Dicks.

Soggy's Ultimate Test for the Existence of God is to throw yourself off a tall building and trust that He will catch you. It works something like this: if, as you're hurtling toward the sidewalk below, you really really believe that God can save you He either will and prove his existence or He won't and thus, for the last split-second that your brain and soul are anything more than a splattered koolaid stain, you will know that the universe is truly without an almighty being . . . or, at least, without a benevolent one. Because why would God turn His back on someone with that kind of faith?
I know, I know, this sounds like the kind of stoner theosophy undergraduates use to get the panties off their girlfriends, but since Soggy is somewhere in his early sixties, I'm inclined to take him seriously. But of course I should say "was in his early sixties." The shift in tense is hard to get used to.
We drank together often enough that the regular customers have been offering me their condolences all afternoon. How am I doing? Would I like someone to attend the funeral with me? Did I know he was going to jump? I offer these people a sad smile that is, okay, a little put on. To them I am his son, or grandson, or nephew, and there's no reason to tell them that outside this cafe we never even saw each other. We shared a table in the Hanging Grounds long enough to link us by blood in the eyes of the regulars, who somehow never noticed that we came in separately, and that most of the time he sloshed over to my table and plunked his unwieldy ceramic mug down hard enough to splash the cover of whatever novel or magazine I was trying to read.
I only knew him by the nickname he offered one afternoon when he was drinking himself sober, and he never even asked for mine. It occurs to me now that even if I want to attend his funeral there's no way I could locate a family. The city paper might cover the death, but it doesn't run front-page stories on nameless old men who jump for the pavement.
Virginia has been sitting across from me, not in Soggy's seat but in the one next to it that hardly anyone has ever been in, for the better part of five minutes. We smiled at each other when she settled in there, but I've been poking at this keyboard and she's been casually watching the cafe the way an owner/cook/waitress has to. Finally, just a second ago, she cleared her throat and caught my eyes.
"Suicide is the hardest thing to understand," she said.
"It wasn't suicide," I said.
She just offered a little half-smile. I shrugged. How can I explain that Soggy didn't actually kill himself? How do you tell someone that your friend was murdered by God?